Somewhere in the uncharted Venn diagram intersect where Madhur Jaffrey overlaps with Hunter S Thompson lies the south Manchester suburb of Rusholme, locus of the celebrated Curry Mile. “Old boy, I’ve never seen the like,” said my cousin Nick. “It’s tandoori Las Vegas!”

So it is, though even in these tense times it’s not easy to imagine the streets of Rusholme resounding to the paradiddles of Joe Pesci’s baseball bat on some poor casino-keeper’s bonce, or swarming with the cybersleuths of CSI. It’s pretty hard to imagine Madhur Jaffrey overlapping with Hunter S Thompson, come to that; but I think you’ll find it’s pretty hard to unimagine it, too.

As our taxi entered this mystical realm, the frisson of raw excitement took me back to a distant dusk in the Mojave desert when, from the wheel of a hired Buick, I first caught sight of Sin City itself shimmering wickedly in the distance. But now it was curry, rather than chips, I sought.

The Curry Mile is lined with score upon score of restaurants, most Pakistani but with many Middle Eastern and North African joints nestling among them, their neon frontages blinking so relentlessly that the absence of signs warning diners with photosensitive epilepsy to Turn Back Now seemed a perplexing health-and-safety oversight.

To choose our destination, we did something that might be thought a crazy gamble at best; at worst, a lightly coded entreaty that we both be sectioned under the Mental Health Act. We asked a cab driver for advice.

“Lal Qila,” he replied, without pause for thought. “It’s not the cheapest, but it is the best.”

“In that case, please take us there,” I said, thankfully resisting the temptation to come over all Sherlock Holmes by adding “and there’s a golden sovereign in it for you, driver, if you get us there by sunrise,” since we were, it soon transpired, 20 yards from the door.

First impressions were not propitious. Moments after we were seated (in a large, uncluttered space), a trio of hoodies began playfully tossing one another against the window: an omen of the mayhem that would soon engulf the city centre. Eventually they tired of providing the cabaret, and things began to look up. So, having kept our eyes firmly cast down to avoid theirs, did we.

“Well, it’s not exactly elegant,” said Nick, taking in the laminated menu filled with garish pictures and the flock wallpaper that these days almost qualifies as retro chic. “It’s lit more brightly than a dental surgery, this sitar music must be audible in Liverpool and, although these chairs are comfortable, they’re like the ones you’re strapped to when you’re about to receive a lethal injection.

“But I must say,” he went on after a waiter deposited crisp and greaseless poppadoms and pints of Cobra, “I do like being addressed as 'boss’. Very Vegas.”

We were also taken with a long menu which, having rounded up all the usual suspects, fleshes out the subcontinental culinary ID parade with such exotica as quail with Karachi sauce and the devilishly elliptical “Kidney Special”. A little too taken, in fact, since we ordered enough to raise the waiter’s eyebrows in the quizzical manner which translates, pace Norman’s Lexicon of Waiterly Body Language, as: “I sure hope you guys both have a tapeworm, because that’s the only way you’re going to make a significant dent in this lot.”

What he actually said, on delivering the first tranche of dishes, was: “Enjoy very nice starters,” and prophetic these words proved. Tandoori chicken, done in the authentic Pakistani style to retain the colour of chicken rather than the familiar carcinogenic crimson of the high street, tasted fried rather than baked. “It’s growing on me by the mouthful,” said Nick, who had initially questioned its tandoori status. “That cabbie was no fool.”

A quartet of sizzling tandoori lamb chops, alluringly covered with browned onions, tingled the tongue with ginger, garam masala and much besides. Three huge prawns, perfectly cooked to retain their meaty texture, bore the same imprint of freshly crushed spices.

So generous were the portions that we could happily have called it a night. But Nick and I are eaters, not quitters; so we beat on, boats against the current, through a stream of main courses that highlighted the talent in the kitchen. That quail was a revelation, the juiciest of meat in a thick and deliciously coriander-laden gravy. Haleem, a collation of seven types of lentil with steamed, ground lamb and crispy onions was a delight as much for its textural contrasts as the intensely gingery taste. Chicken in a sweet-and-sour sauce had “just the right balance,” enthused Nick. “It gives you a kick but doesn’t knock your head off.” Bhajis of aubergine and cauliflower, pilau rice and breads – all faultless.

The waiter seemed as much impressed as medically concerned as he removed our empty plates. But I felt his inquiry after desserts had a satirical edge, and Lal Qila’s ambience is hardly designed to discourage lingering. So off we waddled (bellies against the prevailing south-westerly) into the strobing south Manchester night, vowing that this little binge would forever (or for a fortnight until press day, at least) remain our dirty little secret. What happens on the Curry Mile stays on the Curry Mile.